


For All the Weeks In Spring (In a Language That Needs No Words)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Confessions, Flowers, Fluff, M/M, Oblivious!Frodo, Pining!Frodo, The Language of Flowers, copious uses of metaphors, shy!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22259323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: Each week, a flower appears on Frodo's bedside table.He's sure there is some intent to them, but for the life of him, he cannot figure out what they are supposed to mean.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 13
Kudos: 164





	For All the Weeks In Spring (In a Language That Needs No Words)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been putting the plans in motion for a SamFro AU, but while I was trying to make an outline this idea grabbed me and refused to leave me alone. I'm a sucker for flower imagery and I absolutely adore the language of flowers. it's something that has always struck a chord with me, yet something I've never truly had the opportunity to explore.
> 
> See end notes for the meanings of the flowers (if you're by any chance interested)

It is on the seventh of April, according to the Shire Reckoning, that the flowers first start to appear.

There were always various bouquets of sorts around Bag End, of course, so such an item was not an unusual occurrence. However, it was not the bouquet in question; but instead its location that had caught Frodo by surprise. 

A bundle of lavender sits aside Frodo's bedside table. 

He had noticed it instantly, being awakened by its soothing scent; one that reminds him of floral honey and the buzzing of fat bumblebees, cheerful and jolly in their bumbling movements. It smells of bright spring mornings, and days spent awash in bright sunlight, enjoying the revitalisation of cold winter into what would soon become the heat of summer. It is a reminder of spring songs and late nights, watching the sunset from atop the great hill, pipe in hand and feet tangled between blades of grass.

He can hear Sam humming in the garden, some distance away. If he listens close enough, he can hear the gentle  _ snip snip snipping _ of his garden shears. He smiles as he dresses himself that morning, eyes trained on the purple sprigs standing proud in their clear vase.

It is Sam who has left him there, for it could be nobody else. There is not anyone he trusts more than dear Samwise. He is the one with the key to his house and, if Frodo is being entirely honest with himself, Sam holds another key much dearer and far more expensive than all of his belongings combined; even that peculiar magic ring Bilbo had left behind. Sam holds something precious, something sacred. Something that Frodo has never given to anyone, something that he didn't think was ever his to give.

But still, his heart flutters from its locked cage. Trapped like a nightingale, wings broken but growing ever stronger.

One day that bird's wings will flutter free, and Frodo will not be able to hide for any longer.

But, for now, he looks at the sprigs of lavender and takes in one last breath. A moment of weakness was all that was. But the sun is not slowing down and the day is passing without him. He needs to focus on reality, not lose himself in a fantasy world that is not his to imagine.

He leaves to his study and tries not to think upon it too much. 

All he knows is that he is lucky to have someone as good and kind as Sam looking after him.

x

It takes only a few days before the lavender begins to wilt, but Frodo does not have the heart to dispose of them himself. He looks at their drooping leaves and breathes in their homely scent. They're still beautiful, even if they're not as perfect as they once were.

The next morning the lavender is gone and Frodo finds himself absently missing their presence. 

x 

On the 14th of April, precisely a week after the gift of lavender, he spies the same clear vase on his bedside table. This time, it's a bundle of tulips - the white ones with the streaks of red that run through them like fire. He'd been admiring them the other day, as he'd brought out a cool glass of water to Sam. 

Variegated, was the term for them apparently. They were hard to come by, a rarity in the little town of Hobbiton, Sam had said. Challenging to grow, challenging to get the colours just so, streaks of red becoming pink in seas of frothed white.

"But not challenging for the best gardener in the whole of the Shire." Frodo had said, paying close attention to the way Sam's throat bobbed up and down as he drank deeply. His Adam's Apple moved deliciously with the movement, something which Frodo knew from frequent periods of study. But before Sam could notice, or feel the intent gaze of Frodo's eyes upon his skin, he would avert his eyes, instead gaze at the myriad of flowers that sat Bag End alive with colour. "And who might that be, Mr Frodo?" Sam had asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. There was a streak of dirt across his face that Frodo longed to wipe off. His fingers twitched, and the nightingale in his chest quivered uncomfortably, wings beating against that iron cage.

"Why,  _ you _ , of course." And he had left with a smile, picking up the now-empty glass and leaving a spluttering Sam, his cheeks flushed a beautiful shade of red.

The bird's wings fluttered so hard that, for the briefest of moments, Frodo feared it would break free. But soon it settled and Frodo returned to his study, a breath of relief puffing through his nose.

But he could not focus on his work, no matter how hard he tried. The nightingale tweeted in his chest, its voice singing the same tune that Sam had been humming in the garden.

x

A week passes without much changing. The tulips sit proudly in their vase for a few more days, until they too begin to droop and wilt. 

They vanish only a few days later and with their disappearance, something strange begins to happen with Sam.

He's shyer. Shyer than usual, that is.

Sam had always been a timid lad, someone who took pleasure in the simple things and preferred to stay hidden in the shadows rather than stand in the limelight. He was humble, one to brush off compliments with a red face and a waver in his voice. He did not welcome high praise and he found no comfort in being put high on a pedestal for all to see. He was like the daisies amongst green pastures. Not noticed by many, ignored and overlooked for the sunflowers that stood proud and tall. But had there been no daisies, the fields would be not nearly half as beautiful. He was like that. A beauty that went unnoticed, but if gone, it would be sorely missed.

It was a shame, Frodo thought, that someone as kind and beautiful as Sam (for he was beautiful, like the sunrise in the East and the light dancing between the leaves of trees) could not see how truly special he was.

But, as of recently, he had become more nervous, more flustered in Frodo's presence. Especially when Frodo were to smile at him.

The nightingale within his chest flutters wildly at the implications of such a thing, but he dismisses the thought with a clenching of his hands.

At first, Frodo had played it off as spring heat, for it was unusually hot this year and Sam was working outside for most of the day. He had resolved instead to be more considerate of his dear gardener, doubling the number of times he would leave the coolness of his study to get him a cold glass of water. Too much sun could do that to a brain, addle it all up and make one awfully red and flustered and unlike oneself. But Frodo had seen Sam from outside his study's window and he had been nothing other than perfect, out there in the garden. There had not been one sign of sun-sickness when he was completely alone.

Even still, Frodo still brought out the extra glasses of water. 

Of course, Sam could do it himself. Frodo was on no mighty horse that his other fellow gentlehobbts might sit astride. Sam knew he was free to get whatever he wished from within Bag End, whether that be a glass of water or a cup of tea, or anything at all really. Frodo wouldn't mind, not one bit. While Sam was a servant in name, he was a most esteemed guest to Frodo. (And to the nightingale, trapped in its iron cage.  _ Invite him over for dinner,  _ it would tweet on those evenings when Sam would stay late.  _ Tell him how you feel) _

Even still, Frodo still felt the need to fetch Sam his water himself. It was a poorly guised excuse to see him, really. To see the way his shirt clung to sweat-soaked skin, outlining the hard muscles in his arms and the broadness of his strong shoulders. He was not entirely immune to the nightingale's call, and he could be forgiven for a moment of weakness, surely.

Frodo enjoyed Sam's company. It was as simple as that, but for these past few days something had been off with his dearest gardener.

His words were having more trouble than usual, his speech awkward and flustered and nervous. He would not look Frodo in the eyes for more than a moment and he seemed reluctant to hold conversations with Frodo for prolonged periods of time.

Frodo wonders what is wrong, but chooses not to ask. 

Samwise is sensitive, honest. Whatever has come over him, Frodo must trust it is not with the intent to hurt his feelings. Sam is an honest hobbit, above all else, and Frodo can't imagine that he would be so unwilling to talk if something was truly wrong.

However, it does not stop Frodo from speculating what might be the problem. Maybe it was troubles with romance. It was no small secret that Rosie Cotton was sweet on Sam, maybe he was just nervous over that. But the thought of such a thing makes a strange sort of pain twist in Frodo's chest. The bird's wings crack, bones snapping and breaking and white feathers falling into the pit of his stomach.  _ Jealousy _ , Frodo thinks, before quickly dismissing the thought.

He had promised himself he would not think of such matters anymore, for what he wished so dearly was something that could not happen, not in this world.

So he contents himself with smiling at Samwise from outside his study's window. He thinks of the flowers in the vase, and wonders why Sam (for only Sam has such access to his home) has been leaving them.

He shakes his head and returns to his translation.  _ Now is not the time for such foolishness. Dreams like this only get your heart broken. _

The nightingale ruffles its wings, the white plume of his chest standing out like a beacon in Frodo's heart. It tweets, singing its song, and few more of its snowy feathers fall out.

x

The 21st of April arrives, and with it there is a new bundle of flowers. 

Tulips, again. This time, however, they are a bold yellow. Like sunshine, warm spring days, the early morning sky. Frodo breathes in their gentle scent, almost invisible with just a tang of sweetness.

Quiet. Unassuming. Beautiful.

Sam's voice catches over the gentle breeze, rising to Frodo's ajar window. He's singing an Elvish tune, mumbling the words he does not remember. It's one of the ones Bilbo had taught them both; something which seems so long ago now.

The nightingale sings along, tweeting out sadly from within its confinement. 

Sam has certainly grown up since then. But he's still the same gentle boy that Frodo had met all those years ago. The one who dreamed about Elves and faraway lands and always begged and begged for just one more story. He'd shot upwards, filled out with muscle and fat, a softness about his middle and strength in his powerful arms. His face had gone from childish sweetness to handsome, but his caring nature and kind eyes had never once left him.

Frodo takes one last glance at the tulips before he leaves to his study.

Bold. Strong. Vibrant.

Under his breath, he hums the Elvish tune, voice melting in with Sam's fading one.

x

With every passing day, Sam seems to grow more and more flustered. 

It's three days after the yellow tulips when Frodo realises he's left a book in his bedroom, one that he had used for some late-night reading.

With a huff, he moves to stand, stretching his back until he hears it pop. He digs his knuckles into the palms of his hands, cracking the bones there until the stiffness leaves them. He makes his way to his bedroom, wincing at the numbness of his legs. He'd been sat down far too long, a recurring problem since he's lessened his outdoor visits to chat with Sam.

_ Sam,  _ he thinks.  _ What's gotten into him? He's always been shy but this… _

"M-Mr Frodo, sir!" Sam yelps as Frodo enters his bedroom. His eyes are wide, as if he's been caught something he shouldn't be doing. Clasped in his hands are a bundle of drooping yellow tulips. "S-sorry, sir. It's jus' that, well, they were droopin' an' all an' I didn't want to bother you none an'-"

The nightingale flutters, wings trying to spread out wide. But the cage confines it and it cannot be set free.

"Sam!" Frodo cuts him off with a laugh, interrupting his frantic rambling. "It's fine! I appreciate them, the flowers." He pauses. "I appreciate  _ you _ . You don't have to do this, you know." He can feel his face heating up, but he ploughs on regardless. "I don't know if I say this enough, but I really appreciate you, Sam. You're a good… friend. I'm beyond lucky to have you in my life."

The nightingale bristles. Another plumage of its white feathers fall.

He curses at the pause in his words. Calling Sam a friend… he wanted more than that.

But it's worth it to see the way Sam's face flushes a deep red, one of his large hands rising to rub the back of his neck - a flustered gesture that Frodo has picked up on these past few weeks.

"I- t'is nothing, sir. I- you're… you deserve the world."

And with that, Sam hurries out of the room in a rush, vase and tulips held tightly in his arms.

Frodo watches him go, a smile spreading across his face. This was not what he wanted. He wanted much more than this, but he would have to be content. This is all he has. This is all he will get.

It is only when he sits back down in his study, pen in hand, that he lets out a curse. He'd completely forgotten about that damn book!

x

On the 28th of April, exactly one week after the appearance of the yellow tulips, Frodo awakens with a smile. 

He looks over to his bedside table and, as expected, there sits a fresh bouquet of flowers.

He doesn't recognise these ones instantly, but he likes their prettily bunched petals, swathes of deep red all wrapped about a green stem.

_ Carnations,  _ he realises, hand reaching out to touch them.

They're soft, silken to the touch.

He freezes for a moment, mind drawn to his younger years; when he and Sam had listened to Bilbo's fanatical tales. 

He remembers, once, when Sam had been particularly persistent about the Elves. Bilbo had mentioned something then. A way of communication that the Elves had once used, sending messages for loved ones through bright bunches of flowers.

_ A language of flowers.  _

He looks outside the window, sees the blue sky painted with puffy white clouds. Today, he can't hear Sam in the garden; he must be too far away.

He shakes the hope rising in his thoughts.  _ It's nothing. _

They're just flowers. 

The nightingale bleats out its song, wings battered against iron bars.

But he's not so sure.

x

Five days after the gift of carnations, and one day after they had begun to droop and been swiftly removed, there's a knock on the study door.

Frodo looks up with a start, unaccustomed to being disturbed during his work. Usually he's the one who disturbs himself, what with his thoughts constantly leaning towards the fleeting view of Sam in the garden, shirt unbuttoned to reveal a trail of golden curls across his chest, leading down to…

"Y-yes?" He croaks out, stammering in surprise.  _ Don't think about Sam shirtless. Stop it. Stop it. Think of something else. Something…  _

"Mr Frodo?" Sam twists the handle carefully, head peering through the ajar door. "I-I'm not bein' a bother, am I sir?" His bottom lip, plump and rosy, is caught between his teeth. Frodo's mind derails itself, instead focusing on other things that he promised himself he would not dwell on anymore.

"I, uh." He stutters out eloquently when he realises the silence has dragged on far too long. "Of course you're not a bother, Sam! What do you need?" 

Hesitantly, Sam enters, a pair of dark lightly furred feet stepping into the study. Frodo watches him, sees the strong muscles tense and relax with each careful movement. His eyes trail up higher, studiously avoiding the bulge of Sam's trousers (he really doesn't want to be caught staring  _ there,  _ of all places. He doesn't know how he'd wriggle out of that explanation) and reaching higher, over the rounded stomach and broad shoulders.

His eyes get stuck on the line of Sam's throat. The Adam's Apple that bobs with a deep gulp. He feels the inside of his mouth go dry and, in a moment of weakness, Frodo's eyes are once more drawn to the front of Sam's trousers. 

_ Chirp,  _ goes the nightingale.  _ Chirp, chirp.  _

"Can I ask you somethin', sir?" He says, snapping Frodo out of his reverie. With a flush high on his cheeks that Frodo blames on the spring heat, (even though his study is as cool as can be) he replies with only a slight crack in his voice. 

"Of course, Sam. You can ask me anything, you know that." He offers a smile which he hopes is comforting and friendly, although it only seems to make Sam squirm, his eyes flickering about everywhere but Frodo's face.

"Well, the thing is sir… I...If I wanted to," He pauses, taking in a deep breath. His next words come out in a hushed whisper, as though he fears there are ears in the walls that will spread his secrets to the world. " _ court someone _ ," 

Frodo's heart sinks.

The nightingale's chirps turn to a howl, a gale of wind between leafless trees. 

"How would I go about doing that, do you think?" 

Damn Rosie Cotton with her golden curls and beaming smile. Damn himself. Damn himself for not saying anything sooner.

"I've been tryin' the traditional way, y'know; with the flowers an' such, but I don't think they be gettin' my message." 

There's an intent look across Sam's face, behind the flustered blush, as though Frodo is supposed to be understanding something gone unsaid. He's too busy trying to hide the twisting pain in his heart. The nightingale's wings are snapped and bent. Beyond repair, he thinks. 

He'd tried to keep his distance, pretend that he wasn't hopelessly in love with his gardener (for he was. He  _ is,  _ but now it's too late - if he ever had a chance in the first place) to try and pick up whatever hidden messages Sam is attempting to send his way.

"I'm ever so sorry Sam, but I'm not too familiar with courtship rituals." Successfully, he keeps his voice smooth and restrained. It does not waver once, he notices with a measure of pride. "You must excuse me, I really do need to continue with my work."

Hurt flashes across Sam's face and he steps back as if he's been scalded. "'course, sir. I'm right sorry to have bothered you." And with that, he leaves.

Frodo watches him go and can't help but feel like he's missing something.

The nightingale does not flutter. It's wings are still and its breaths are short. It is dead, he thinks. it is dead and it will not be coming back.

x

Sam avoids him for the rest of the week.

x

On the 5th of May, Frodo awakens expecting nothing.

But, on his bedside table, there sits a bundle of daffodils.

They're slightly wilted, the petals curling at the edges. It's not a surprise, considering spring will soon be at an end, but all Frodo can think of is the hurt in Sam's eyes those few days ago in the study.

He is reminded of the language of flowers. Bilbo had taught both him and Sam a few, although Frodo had not found interest in such a thing.

But Sam was a gardener and he poured his whole life into the blossoms of flowers and the stories they weaved amongst soil and rock.

He sits up in bed, brow furrowed as he tries to recall those long gone lessons.

_ Daffodils. _

_ New life, new beginnings. Hope. _

_ You're the only one. _

His heart burns in his chest, thumping wildly. But Bilbo's voice does not quieten. Flowers can have multiple meanings, multiple connotations, depending on what the scenarios are.

_ Unrequited love. _

His heart sinks.

_ You're a fool, Frodo Baggins. A fool. _

x

The glass of water is cool in his hands, clear and refreshing on the warm spring morning.

Sam is out in the garden, as he always is, but he does not sing. Neither does the nightingale. Not anymore. It just sits there, underneath Frodo's ribcage, in stolid silence. 

_ I've been tryin' the traditional way, y'know; with the flowers an' such, but I don't think they be gettin' my message. _

He looks at the water in his hands. He thinks of Sam, of his flushed cheeks and nervous eyes. His long glances, lingering touches.

He takes in a deep breath, breathing in liquid courage.

The nightingale's chest does not have many white feathers left, for they fell out long ago, but still a few remain. He holds on to them, keeps his head held high. There is hope, somewhere.

And the nightingale chirps.

He heads towards the sound of snipping garden shears, heart in his throat.

x

"Sam." He says, standing some distance away. Sam's back is to him and Frodo takes a short moment to appreciate the strong muscles in his back, the tightness of his arms as he snips away at the flowers, cutting back a particularly stubborn patch of ivy that had been smothering the blooming rose-bushes; not yet large enough to fight for their own ground.

Halting with a start, Sam's fingers momentarily slip on the shears, before he quickly catches himself; turning around quickly and offering a short, infuriatingly formal bow. "Mr. Frodo, sir! What can I help you with?"

Frodo holds out the glass of water. A peace offering of sorts.

He hopes that Sam hears the words that go unsaid, the ones that Frodo could not understand back in the study.

A smile that puts the high spring sun to shame spreads across Sam's face. He accepts the water thankfully, raising it to his lips and taking deep, long gulps.

This time, Frodo doesn't bother to hide his focused gaze, his eyes trained on the familiar line of Sam's throat. When he finishes, draining the glass with a final gulp, back of his hand raising to wipe his mouth, he looks at Frodo with a devilish gleam in his eyes; an expression Frodo could only have dreamed of on his sweet-minded gardener.

No words are exchanged between the two, but Sam hands the glass back with a meaningful expression sparkling in his eyes, and this time Frodo understands.

He walks back to the study, body unusually hot, but this time he does not pretend it is from the heat of the sun.

The nightingale sings, and while it is a beautiful noise, it is nothing compared to the lilting tune that Sam hums, catching on the spring breeze as Frodo enters Bag End once more.

x

The week continues at a snail's pace, and while nothing meaningful is spoken in words, there become lingering glances and blooming smiles they neither fights to hide.

Gestures become their language, one that nobody but them can speak, but Frodo still cannot wait for this week to end and for the next to begin. 

It is strange, he feels, that so far their feelings have only been told through silence.

But there is something special about this. Something that he could not have with anyone else. Even if he does not know what all the flowers have meant, or what the glisten in Sam's eyes is supposed to say, it is sacred.

It is something that nobody else can touch. It is theirs, and theirs alone. 

Sam holds the key in the palm of his hand and the nightingale sings with joy. Its wings flutter, it's excitement palpable in the air. There is a chance, now. A chance for it to be set free.

Frodo quite likes that.

x

The 12th of May can't come soon enough and Frodo awakens earlier than usual. The nightingale flitters about, head peeking through the bars of its cage.

He looks to the vase that he  _ knows _ is there, and spies a flash of soft lilac.

A single rose, in full bloom, stands tall.

It's thornless, he notices too. Not naturally though. Someone had taken the time out of their day to remove each biting thorn, each blade of sharpness.

_ Sam. _

His voice carries through the garden, right into Frodo's bedroom.

It swirls with the fullness of his heart. Gentle tunes in rhythm with the quickening thumping. Writing songs with their bodies, making music for their ears. 

The nightingale sings along with it and Frodo can feel it ready its wings, waiting now; for the day when it will be free.

He holds the rose up, held softly between his slender fingers. Bringing it up to his nose, lilac petals soft and careful against his pale skin, he breathes it in.

A sweet scent. Unassuming and gentle. Not too overpowering, not cloying and dizzying in the way that some flora can be.

It smells comfortable. Safe. Like the world outdoors and the spring petals that flutter in the wind.

It feels like the person who holds his heart. The person who had held these petals, nurtured them through kind words and caring hands. Steadfast and strong, reliable and warm.

_ Sam. _

x

The 19th of April soon comes, but Frodo does not expect any flowers. Not this time.

Instead, he awakens to the dappling of sunlight on his cheeks. The warmth of spring spread through his bedroom window.

He yawns, blinking sleepily.

"Mornin'." A voice whispers.

He smiles, lazily leaning towards the direction of that sweet voice, his head coming to rest on broad shoulders and hand coming to find another one, much broader and thicker than his own.

"Morning, Sam dearest."

Their hands join, their bodies intertwined until there is no end, no beginning.

Sam holds the key in his hands and he unlocks the cage.

The nightingale soars out, wings spread out wide. 

It sings a familiar tune, the one that rumbles deep in Sam's chest as Frodo closes his eyes.

They sing, together as one, until the end of their days.

**Author's Note:**

> There are multiple languages of flowers across the world, however, I think the derived meanings for this fic are combined from both the traditional Victorian flower language and one prevalent in North America, also comes from research I did for a project in my Art GCSE last year. It might not be entirely accurate. 
> 
> Heather/Lavender - represents both admiration and solitude. Admiration referring to Sam's loyalty, solitude referring to Frodo's situation after Bilbo's departure. 
> 
> Variegated tulips - beautiful eyes. Pretty self-explanatory. 
> 
> Yellow tulips - There's sunshine in your smile/beautiful smile. 
> 
> Red carnations - My heart aches for you. Gotta get that unrequited angst in there somehow.
> 
> Daffodils - New beginnings, unrequited love, you're the only one. 
> 
> Lilac roses - enchantment.  
> A single rose in full bloom symbolises 'I love you', and a thornless rose symbolises 'love at first sight'
> 
> The use of falling white feathers with the nightingale is a reference to the treatment of conscientious objectors during both the world wars. The white feather is supposed to signify cowardice. (also I may or may not be working on a post-WWII AU for LotR, so I've had that kind of imagery on my mind for a while)
> 
> This will be the longest authors note I'll probably ever write, and I'm sorry for that, but regardless I hope you enjoyed this little piece of trash. I'm hyper-fixating super bad right now so expect more from me.


End file.
